


Instrumental

by pringlesaremydivision



Category: The Strokes
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2003-11-02
Updated: 2003-11-02
Packaged: 2017-12-23 06:20:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 784
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/923022
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pringlesaremydivision/pseuds/pringlesaremydivision
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They don't always need words.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Instrumental

**Author's Note:**

> Just moving some stuff over from Livejournal.

Julian stumbles off stage, the sound of the roaring audience making his head pound, making him dizzy. Backstage, someone hands him a beer and he accepts it gratefully, but the amber liquid does precious little to ease the sandpaper-roughness of his throat. He attempts a 'thank you' but manages only a harsh, guttural croak, a little like 'thank you' but mostly just desultory noises.  
  
He tries speaking again (quietly, to himself) when he makes it to the couch, settling back with a quiet exhalation. Nothing, nothing but incomprehensible sounds. _Every goddamn concert_ , he thinks, and makes a mental note to sing with less enthusiasm next time. _Quit smoking_ , comes his mother's voice from the back of his mind, and he lights a cigarette just to spite her.  
  
Nick appears (whoosh, right out of thin fucking air, or maybe not, but.), throws himself down onto the couch, narrowly missing the red-orange tip of Julian's cigarette. He casts a quick glance at the door, eyes moving almost (almost) too swiftly for Julian to notice. The worn black leather of the couch, ripped on the arms, stuffing poking out, creaks and groans as he makes himself comfortable. Moisture (sweat) tugs his hair down, casts a sheen over his face and arms. A nod of the head, standard greeting, and a smile when Julian holds out the half-full bottle.  
  
He opens his mouth, closes it with a _click_ , and darts his eyes toward the door again.  
  
 _Expecting someone?_ Julian wants to ask, but can't. Instead he watches the door, which stays resolutely shut.  
  
::  
  
The kiss, when it happens, takes Julian by surprise. One moment Nick is doing nothing but sitting, alternately glancing up at the door and down at his lap, where his fingers ( _guitarist fingers_ , giggle the girls who manage to find their way backstage, before the inevitable hair flip and shoulder touch) are tracing well-worn paths in the jeans he's worn all week. Julian thinks there are spots on the denim where the dye has been rubbed away by the incessant back-and-forth movement, and doesn't stop to wonder why he's inspecting Nick's lap so closely, because.  
  
The next moment Nick is leaning over and (bam) pressing his lips (too hard too fast too nervous) to Julian's, and even if Julian were able to speak, able to utter sounds that made any sort of sense, he couldn't. It takes a moment before he manages to autofocus, the outline of the other boy's ( _ha_ , thinks Julian distantly, _boy_ , but right now he doesn't care) face becoming brighter, sharper.  
  
Nick tastes metallic: like nicotine and silver. The tang invades Julian's mouth, gets under his tongue (which is tangling with Nick's, which only enhances it, enhances everything) and behind his teeth, makes his head spin again and his jeans grow tighter.  
  
His cigarette falls forgotten to the floor, where it burns a tiny hole in the already filthy carpet before extinguishing itself.  
  
::  
  
The snick of the snap being undone, the buzz of the zipper as it's pulled down: the sound of Julian's dirty fingernails scritch-scratching at the couch sounds crisp, almost tangible in the otherwise silent room. Nick's strokes are unsteady, unsure, but when his mouth replaces his hand and one digit pushes experimentally against and then into his opening, Julian realizes that the girls might, for once, know what they're talking about.   
  
The light catches Nick's sweatshiny hair as he bobs up and down, fingers moving almost in tandem, and Julian has trouble keeping his eyes on the door (just in case) instead of him.  
  
He comes with a yell, pushing his vocal chords to the limit, breaking them, snapping them even further. He coughs, wincing at the ache in his throat, before tugging Nick up and kissing him again, tongues and lips fighting for dominance. He tastes himself in Nick's mouth, dulling the silversmoke flavor that he's already become addicted to. (Because what's another addiction anyway, it's nothing, not really.)  
  
 _Boy_ , thinks Julian again, this time more clearly. He finds he still doesn't care, and kisses the boy again to prove it.  
  
The door never does open, though neither would have noticed if it did.  
  
::  
  
Julian can't speak above a whisper for a week, but it doesn't matter, because it delays having to explain _why_ he can't speak above a whisper, because it means that when they fuck on the back of the bus, Julian doesn't have to worry about keeping his voice down, because he couldn't raise it even if he wanted to.  
  
Because, he thinks as he kisses Nick again and again and again (taste like metal and cigarettes taking up a permanent residence in his mouth) - because they work just as well without words anyway.


End file.
